


Inviolate Rose

by Astrinde



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dubious Science, Impersonation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Manipulation, Memories, Mental Breakdown, Multi, Mythology References, Parallels, Pre-Series, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrinde/pseuds/Astrinde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Genius</i>, like <i>prince</i>, is a role that can destroy the player.<br/>From bud to bloom to blight, this is the story of a living computer, the man beneath that spiritless shell - and the shadow that shatters his brilliance.</p>
<p>(The first chapter of this work was originally published for Yuletide 2015, as <i>By Rote and Rose</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calyx (White Rose)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harukami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/gifts).



        “Without tenderness, without poetry, one cannot understand man or his creations.”  
        —Sir J.G. Frazer

        Almost from the time he can comprehend speech, he will hear a particular word, always applied to him. Later he will come to loathe it, to discern its trap, the lie that its potential conceals.  
        He does nothing to invite this assessment, except speak his thoughts with a youngster’s foolish forthrightness. But his words demonstrate unusual suppleness and speed of thought, a strong and exacting recollection. Unable to understand him, others press upon him a name, and from that time on he is no longer a child; he may be only _that_.  
        He is walled into a tower of books and given spectacles to dim the world beyond. Great things, he is told, are expected of him. He has admirers, but no friends, and thus the boy grows, always alone.  
        He becomes a slender youth with haunted eyes, acquires knowledge both encyclopedic and seldom challenged. He learns boredom and reluctance, although still greater things are expected from him. His luminous intellect shines despite himself, fuelling the hope of his family while kindling awe and hatred in everyone else.  
        It is science that saves him from straying, chemistry and anatomy that explain away his childish impulses. With pride and no small relief, he resolves to overcome the chemical aberrations that threaten his brilliance. He devotes himself to more diligent study, until equations of photosynthesis replace the green of grass and leaf, until the processes of cellular respiration and regeneration suffice for physical exertion.  
        As he ages he comes to know of friction and entropy and heat death. Deflection and decay. The inevitable degeneration of mental and physical forms. He delves deeper into the sciences, reaching even to the stars (finding at the end of all textbooks a dread he buries quickly — terminal existence, ending in nothing; he cannot, _will not_ fail!).  
        Neither wonder nor imagination interferes with his development, for it betrays scientific fact to indulge in dreams, and literary pursuits, deemed insufficiently lucrative, are denied him. He recalls only a few tales once told, when he was still considered a child and not an intellectual condition. He never forgets that a clever hero can outwit monsters and free damsels, that a prince is ennobled by the suffering that leads to his princess. Surely he needs only time and opportunity to grow into his greatness — for the extraordinary to manifest like a gift from the heavens, whose every constellation he can name.  
        But the days pass dully away, unhindered by human aspirations; time passes, and he keeps his control in spite of fear (nothing more than nerve impulses, chemical compounds – remember, _think_ ). Only among the young does the _youngest_ in achievement have significance, for no-one has “expectations” of adults; children alone hold infinite potential energy. He is a vessel of dreams that await manifestation, but beyond the inevitable graduation with highest marks, he has no notion of how to fulfil the “promise” made by his gifts. What others termed brilliance came forth from him without effort. But this effortlessness must lead somehow to a true breakthrough, something more than the stacks of certificates gathering dust amidst his books. He is nearly eighteen, and nearly finished.  
        His final year’s research uses the butterfly's chrysalis, which he manipulates through light and warmth to slow the transformation at work within. Having created an alteration of perception in that small vessel, he then postulates that the retardation of progress within an enclosed space might hold the key to slowing, or even stopping, time.  
        His research is bold, his extrapolation revolutionary, but in the end the paper proves nothing except the impossibility of being judged by his intellectual inferiors. His work is deemed interesting but inapplicable – which is to say, effectively useless – and the thesis is passed and published by an indifferent committee who, he suspects, don't comprehend a word of it. He is praised and sent on his way, with another paper to add to the pile; the prodigy is thus prodigiously recognised – and judiciously dismissed.  
        But he finds something surreptitiously bundled with his diploma, a heavy card adorned with a rose-embossed rondel, and curiosity thrills his fingertips as he traces the blood-red seal. The letter startles him with the deep satisfaction it holds, for its writer has both read and understood the infamous thesis, and invites him to coordinate a research project whose aims are “aligned with mutual interests.” A suspicion – that he has never before heard of this “prestigious institution” – surfaces and is quickly shelved, especially when he reaches the letter’s concluding offer: a salary far higher than any failed phenom should merit.  
        If those who nurtured him find disappointment in his appointment, they hide it well as he bids them farewell. As an adult he has the right to choose, and though he believes in no providence but his own efforts, it seems that this path has been perfectly prepared for him. Within a few hours of his arrival, he sits at a desk filled with papers and books, and assumes in this unfamiliar place his old, familiar role: a slight young man buried in research notes, disturbed by nothing and no-one. And he works with his usual diligence, looking for something more in time than the ability to fill his hours with actions, measuring and meting out moments with perfect efficiency.  
        He has neither admirers nor friends, and overhears without interest or offense whenever colleagues imprudently discuss the “living computer” near his door. He accepts their input with indifference, listening listlessly to these same-minded youths, who are young in a way he has never been. He neither demands respect nor cultivates closeness.  
        He bars one word only from his office and from their mutual labours, that word whose opposite he knows too intimately as _failure_. And if the syllables are uttered in his presence, he rebukes them quickly, shaming the error in a voice no warmer than his feelings:  
        _I'm not a **genius**._


	2. Red Rose

        From the start, three conundrums frustrate Nemuro's work: he is tasked to coordinate the efforts of one hundred people, but may not speak openly about their experiments or findings. He seeks to record and analyze anomalies from within the same closed system that he believes to be their source. And his own questions, of _what_ and _why_ and _when_ , are contractually forbidden.  
        Nemuro soon discovers, in fact, that _any_ sort of curiosity serves him ill. His first breakthrough comes through meticulous record-keeping, which confirms his suspicion of irregularities in sidereal motion; he immediately composes a report to the Board and receives as thanks a rebuke for overstepping the project's bounds. A few days later, he overhears researchers from a neighbouring division speculating whether the Academy's location – atop the mist-shrouded and legend-steeped Hou'ou Mountain – might have relevance to their work; that same night, he constructs a map that compiles geological, astronomical, and topographical knowledge of Hou'ou. But the map then vanishes from his locked office, and he is given neither explanation for the seizure nor acknowledgement of his exertions. Through these and similar frustrations, he comes to realise the truth of his assignment: his primary role is to keep the machine running smoothly, and after relinquishing childish hopes of esteem, Professor Nemuro performs it to perfection.  
        At dawn he reads the memorandum that awaits him, then instructs his division accordingly. Throughout the morning, his students perform an ever-changing series of experiments – tests of alloys, combustion of samples, compounding of chemical agents – while the professor computes and calculates and compiles the information demanded of him, much of it puzzling in the extreme. In the afternoon, Nemuro delves into administrative duties, mostly approving other divisions' requests to move materials and personnel; he barely skims the documents he signs, since he neither knows nor cares _what_ his fellow researchers need or _why_. Through the night he labours upon reports, trying to ignore the hushed conversations he can almost hear, the clacking of wheels down the corridors, the hazy, restless sense of secrecy unfairly – and perhaps unwisely – imposed.  
        His listless routine lacks any sense of purpose, despite the rumours of “eternity” and a “revolution” that might one day result, and his division accomplishes little more than the dissemination of paperwork. Nemuro once again finds boredom and reluctance in the uneven hours, struggles against dreaming and distraction and a growing suspicion that his colleagues see only a boy in a professor's uniform. His contract hangs heavily round his neck, binding him to his duty, while his students – who seem a sea of identical blue tunics and rose-crest rings, whose names and faces he often forgets – speak around his silence. He studies the scattered mosaic of their findings, tries to fit together pieces that will not mesh, like kaleidoscopic shapes shifting too quickly to align. His bed is often empty now as he drifts away from awareness, pillowed on papers and sleeping without rest.  
        It is on one such night that he receives two letters for his immediate attention: one a memorandum from the Board of Directors – the other, bearing the same Rose Seal and cryptic signature that accompanied his offer of employment:

        _Nemuro:_

        _The Board cannot sanction your personal experiments, but once again, your findings have attracted My attention. From time to time I shall write to you, and My instructions will be orders that supersede the Board’s authority._  
        _In the beginning I described the project as pertinent to mutual interests, and so I wonder how you would answer a question that your thesis did not ask: if time were sheltered and so altered, as you proposed, what might result if that chrysalis were unsealed?_  
        _Consider this intellectual exercise, as you work to open the Rose Gate._  
        _Your assignment now includes all commands I choose to give you, and you may produce this letter as authorization if your resultant actions are challenged. Your initiative pleases Me. I will be watching._

        _Sekai no Hate_

        His hands suddenly unsteady, he folds the letter and jabs it into the plastic tag that holds his contract; the second message still awaits, and he hurries to open it. However, its contents – which spur him to a long night of preparations – do nothing to calm his agitated state:

        _Professor Nemuro, Project Coordinator_  
        _La Société Sub Rosa_

        _The Board’s Inspector will arrive tomorrow, bearing our letter as authorization. You will provide all project information requested and, we trust, demonstrate substantial progress in your work._

        Nemuro expects a male scientist and receives a jolt when _she_ arrives, more resembling a secretary than a scholar. He sees only ordinary light in her gaze, hears mere pleasantry and formality from her blooming lips; he discerns that even the poorest contributor to his project possesses more intelligence. But she carries the requisite credentials, and without further judgement he escorts her to the working areas. The tapping of her heels chops into his thoughts as they walk, but her proximity does not displease him, though a peculiar sense of sweat and chill prickles his skin.  
        The students hurry to display their findings, responding to her with courtesy and even enthusiasm while he stands alone, with no task to perform save whatever she might request. It unsettles him, this waiting attendance, this _waiting_. He watches, notices that some of the boys are eyeing their visitor with interest. A few even look at him with narrowed eyes, and he does not know what perturbs him more: his discomfort, or his awareness of it.

        ~*~  
        He has never before visited another person’s home, but this inspector’s findings will hold weight with the Academy, and he guesses that her invitation has something to do with the project’s more sensitive aspects. He therefore defers to their mutual employer and accepts, which earns him a long train ride and a slog through ankle-deep slush; still, he arrives on time, and starched and pressed he presents himself, staring impassively and, he hopes, impressively.  
        She prepares tea, and the cup she gives him warms his hands; he feels surprising thirst although she claims the brew is too strong. An hourglass trickles out its moments between them, and she lifts the object in delicate hands, startling him as she wonders aloud whether the timepiece could run slow (and who is _she_ , to ask this question that he cannot?!). His eyes follow the rose petals drifting in his tea, as he tries to remember the words that people say to each other. For a moment he recalls his students’ chatter – _I was talking about the snow, Professor_ – but in truth, he has never understood the point of discussion which communicates no information. Instead, he assures her that his division progresses appropriately upon its task; if she desires conversation, then let _her_ speak of something else.  
        But her gaze lingers on his as though seeking something, and he loses focus (remember, _think!_ ) and then he is babbling about the project and its attendant rumours – thoughts he hardly knew he had, about purpose and humility and even _eternity_ , and his mind is shouting him to _silence_ except that her lips ( _their colour pressed on her cup_ ), her lips like rosebuds are kind and do not ask him to stop. He scolds himself for slipping, wonders if overwork and weariness have prompted him to this unwise prattle, then questions what prompts him to wonder at all…It is too much, _too much_ , and his bare fingers twist each other as he waits (his gloves tucked into the pocket of his overcoat, foolish omission!).  
        The interruption of a distant sound is merciful. She rises and excuses herself, and her absence allows him time enough to settle the strange jitter of his breath; he dismisses it as a lingering winter chill, then rises, without thinking, to see what is the matter.  
        Later, as the returning train sways beneath him, as sweetness fills his senses and rose leaves gently brush his lips, he will wonder what impulse moved him to follow her at all. For he ordinarily avoids conflict, and yet the soft sounds of argument had drawn him _towards_ the greenhouse doors, left standing open.

        _“—weren't you…to stay…today?”_  
        _“Yes, but I was… the roses…”_  
        _“Get back in bed right now!”_  
        _“In a moment—“_  
        _“What I hate most are people who don’t care about themselves!”_  
        _She grips the shoulders of a slight young man, and she is angry, he realises. But he fails to retreat in time; his step alerts them that they're not alone._  
        _“I’m sorry you had to see that,” his hostess murmurs. She walks stiffly away from the startling garden, and when she reaches the entrance, she repeats her command to the youth. “Hurry up and go to bed!”_  
        _The door snaps shut behind her. But the young man makes no move to comply. “You're Nemuro-kyouju, aren't you?”_  
        _“And you are?” he demands. Later he will wince to remember it, poking that brusque moment like a bruise._  
        _“Tokiko Chida's brother. Mamiya.” He is smiling. “I've wanted to meet you—”_  
        _Nemuro doubts the mockery is intentional, interrupts the platitude nonetheless. “You must have heard some interesting stories about me. How I'm like a living computer – right?”_  
        _But the boy – Mamiya – continues, undaunted. “I've read your thesis. You're the first person I've ever respected, aside from my sister. My sister came to Ohtori Academy to meet you.”_  
        _Startled, he searches his memory for this student and finds nothing. “I've never seen you there.”_  
        _A pause prefaces a delicate reply. “She says that the project is proceeding well. It keeps you quite occupied, doesn't it?” He picks up a small set of shears and turns to the nearest rosebush. “Some mornings, I study here. The roses help.”_  
        _Nemuro observes that the plants seem to be thriving; a botanist could spend many weeks absorbed in their variety. “You tend them well.”_  
        _Mamiya now holds the stem of a budding rose, its crimson mound a rich contrast to calyceal green. “Will you come to visit us again?”_  
        _“That…will depend upon your sister.”_  
        _“Mmm. I could refuse to rest.” Deep blue eyes rise through long lashes to meet Nemuro’s gaze._  
        _He stumbles over a response, finally gives a teacher’s admonishment in lieu of wit. “You’re a troublemaker.”_  
        _Mamiya shakes his head. “My sister is very attentive to me. I wouldn’t really.”_  
        _“That’s good. She seems concerned for you.”_  
        _“Kyouju, I'd like to ask—” Mamiya begins, then stops. “Please excuse me; have I said something wrong?”_  
        _It is impossible to think of a lie in this place, standing in sunlight that shimmers like silk through the windows. But he can't seem to explain himself, either. “The title. 'Professor.' It's so…so…“_  
        _“Oh, you are even more venerable, is that it? Let me think – ’tono’ would suit you better, perhaps?”_  
        _Nemuro is horrified. “Certainly not!”_  
        _Mamiya starts to say something, then thinks better of it, and instead offers the rose to him with a smile._  
        _The professor realises too late that the youth intended only a jest. Awkwardly he reaches for the flower, but has no sooner taken it than a thorn digs deep. A sharp inhale hisses through his teeth._  
        _“Kyouju?”_  
        _He holds out his hand as explanation. They both look at the pricked finger, and for several moments neither moves; it is Mamiya who speaks first, ruefully. “There’s always pain with beauty. Isn’t there?”_

        Nemuro had hurried back to the sitting room and stood there awaiting her dismissal, or any indication at all to leave, wanting it before the tremor of his hands, the flutter in his chest ( _too much!_ ) could scatter him to pieces. At last she released him, with an invitation to return, and as she went ( _tap tap tap_ ) to retrieve his overcoat, his eyes found the mark of her mouth on her cup, lingered on the petals curled languidly in its hollow. In haste he drained the trickle of tea, tasting bitter green and rose bitterer still, then wiped away the crimson staining his lips – making of the impulse only an accident and not at all a confession.  
        It is only later, when he is again enveloped in the safety of his office, that he realises how time passed on that first visit: every moment a touch of something intangible, filled with something that tugs at him like the hollow press of hunger. The more he thinks of them, the more he longs to think, and the memory of his own clumsiness, how dull he must have appeared and sounded, only brings a sweetly pained edge to the beauty of recollection.

        ~*~  
        In Professor Nemuro's desk now rests a copy of the only photograph he has ever desired to keep. There is delicacy and perhaps even a little talent evident in the composition, which captures a young woman and a youth in a shower of golden light. The image is framed with straight-edge precision and stored where no visitor to the office can see it; the division secretary is forbidden to open the drawers or even touch the desk. It is thus that the Chida siblings are guarded from prying meddlers, who might question why Nemuro keeps them so near, in a space ordinarily occupied by a man's work.  
        Tokiko and Mamiya: these two are his goals, his goads – his gods, in a sense, for they inspire faith in his work and then reward his performance with their presence. He cannot quantify or explain his contentment, but for the first time in his rote existence, he quiets his questioning thoughts and simply seeks out what he craves. And when the project keeps him from the Chida home, he focuses the full force of his formidable mind upon his efforts. For Nemuro has never wanted “eternity” for himself; the intricacies of time engaged his academic curiosity, certainly, but having never experienced one moment worth preserving, he couldn't imagine any reason to lead a “revolution”. But now – if the rumours are true?  
        Tokiko sets a place for him at her table and serves tiny sweets with her tea, knowing his fondness for them. She speaks openly to him, trusting him with her troubles and worries; even when he has no advice to give her, it doesn't seem to matter. It is she who unlocks the door to the home that is Nemuro's haven, where a brother and sister face the world together, where the sister quests to end her brother's suffering.  
        And sometimes, she steps aside and opens the door to the greenhouse, busying herself around the house while her brother claims their guest's attention. On good days Nemuro takes whatever tool awaits him – his shears, his water pitcher, _his place_ already prepared – and lets both the roses and their tender teach him. On the other days, he sits opposite Mamiya, and they enjoy the sun's warmth together while speaking of matters both factual and frivolous. The youth still calls him _Kyouju_ , with just three years' age between them, but the title has grown into the only nickname he’s ever known, and he can no longer hear himself addressed so without recollecting Mamiya’s face.  
        Nemuro takes care not to visit too often or linger too long; he will neither burden the Chidas, nor leave unfinished the work through which – with time and perseverance and perhaps even _luck_ – he might one day save them all. But throughout the brief idylls of that spring, his shear-sharp mind preserves every detail of his idols indelibly; when his equations frustrate him with thwarted efforts, he sits for several moments and looks at the signs of them, placed all around him: Tokiko's teacup, and the vase holding every rose that Mamiya has clipped for him, and the photograph of their smiles. He revisits them thus in his thoughts, there finding a pure and untouchable beauty in memory.  
        And for the first time, in a life nearly desolate of dreams, he hopes and even holds faith that his labours might succeed. As he works – for a noble sister, a beautiful brother – he can almost discern the shape of that eternity they seek: a three-cornered, infinite-planed castle where blooms the rose of all the world, a bower to encompass himself and her and him: Nemuro and Tokiko and Mamiya, Tokiko and Mamiya, _Tokiko and Mamiya_...

        ~*~  
        He cradles the frame in his hands as he stares at their image, his work for the day being long-finished; finally, Nemuro decides to quell sudden restlessness with a walk. A few minutes later, he briskly exits Kurios Hall and sets himself upon the westward footpath. It is not his usual route, for he doesn’t often visit the Arena – though it isn't far, though his rank permits him to approach there whenever he chooses – seeing no reason to goad himself with the inexplicable and impossible. He knows little of the Arena except paradox: the structure looks impeccably new, remains impenetrably sealed, and is surrounded by a river which runs a circular course, apparently originating and ending nowhere. Nemuro has observed the site's mysteries with his own eyes, and he cannot explain their cause any more than he understands the impatience that drives him there now.  
        Perhaps it is simply a solitary repose he seeks, as he perches himself upon the banks of that intriguing stream. He listens to the waters run their unnatural circuit, and his eyes he lifts to the Rose Gate, studying the interwoven patterns that hint at something perpetual and perfect beyond. Whenever the wind shakes the leaves of nearby trees, he hears the whisper of bells, the double chiming that announces a marriage. Soon his senses are lulled by the soft grass beneath him, by the bewitching peace of this place, and he grows too tired to resist; for a little while, then – a _very_ little while – his overstimulated mind falls into an old dream of heroism. Of a perilous forest, its paths choked with obstacles. Of a cursed beauty awaiting release, beyond the reach of ordinary men. As a child he'd imagined himself bearing a torch of brilliant light, burning through the tangle of thorns. Or else he’d wondered what it might be to sleep, for years, even decades, to leave _brilliance_ to others, to lay down the burden of thought and simply rest. To be kissed by the sun, by the rain...by a saviour...  
        At that, he issues a sharp self-rebuke and shoves such weakness aside, for it has always served his best interests to exorcise fairytale phantoms from his world of facts; he would have become a useless dreamer otherwise. He’s learned to turn his aspirations to business, and science, and self-sufficient genius that achieves and perseveres and needs rescue from nothing but ignorance. Underappreciated his master’s thesis might have been, but he'd composed it on the strength of pure intellectual curiosity, untainted by _la belle au bois dormant_ and her century-long sleep. And so it is with proud determination that Nemuro removes himself from reverie; he will review his work instead, running calculations with the efficiency of a fine machine.  
        For a long time that afternoon he remains, beside the river that splashes and rushes in apparent disdain of human concerns. He reassures himself that the project will succeed, one way or another; it _must_. But his wandering impulse sent him out-of-doors without his gloves, and the scent of roses clings to his hands (Mamiya, _Mamiya_...), reminding him with cutting immediacy what's at stake. ( _Don't think of it. The roses—darkening even now—no!_ ) The stars emerge, winking in their unhurried pulses, keeping an ancient watch; they will linger in this place, counting out the centuries in silence, indifferent to his discoveries or his deeds.  
        But Mamiya...  
        _The greenhouse, radiant, fragrant. Bashfully Nemuro_  
                _(Nemuro, Tokiko, Mamiya!)_  
        _lifts his chin from his chest._  
        _Mamiya regards him, finally speaks. “It suits you,” he decides._  
        _A white rose blooms on his lapel. He can explain every inch of the rose. He has never worn its flower before..._  
        He presses his forehead to one knee, then lifts his head and brings a bare palm to soothe his eyelids. At this unaccustomed touch of flesh on flesh, a strange, vast sensation rises in him, and it startles him with its starkness and immediacy. It seems some dreadful suspicion, born of the indifferent heavenly vaults and the senselessness of a universe that births a boy and then withdraws as he...he...  
        A tear slips suddenly from his eye and slides between his joined fingers, a tear that seems to wrench sensation from his core and give it form. Nemuro covers his face with his hands; in all of his memory he has never wept before, and strives so intently against it now that he doesn't notice when the sole witness to his struggle slows its streaming to a standstill. He doesn't see when a single drop of water, pearl-pure, rises and arcs through the air as though taking flight. He barely registers the chill when it strikes the warm moisture upon his fingertips.  
        But his hands fall with astonishment as the circular stream breaks its course, heaving itself high above him in mighty, massive sheets: a downpour of rain in reverse, a looming wall of water that defies every physical law he knows. Lacking the luxury of thought, Nemuro scrambles to his feet and backs away, watching in wonder as the waters part, pouring and toppling down in deafening torrents before retreating deep into the earth.  
        And then mute shock is the only reaction he can summon as the Rose Gate, elusive and esoteric, opens its petals before him.

        ~*~  
        _Your “solution” to the Gate’s seal was unexpected but effective, and so I reward you with further information:_  
        _It is not enough to open the Arena. He who leads the revolution must be ready to vanquish all challengers who would claim the power of eternity._  
        _One need not be a genius to perform certain calculations, and so I leave you with three simple questions to sharpen your focus, with every confidence that you will choose wisely._  
        _How would your odds improve, if the number of researchers fell from one-and-a-hundred to only one?_  
        _How long can the Chida family wait for you to succeed?_  
        _And if you refuse Me, how long do you believe I shall wait before turning My attention to another?_  
        _Too long you have laboured in obscurity, and how you long to shine, to prove yourself a worthy prince! Do not doubt that this is the test of your greatness. I choose you, alone of the most brilliant minds this Academy has ever gathered. Do not fail Me._

        _Sekai no Hate_

        Even knowing that this mysterious _Ends of the World_ keeps eyes upon him, Nemuro shifts uncomfortably upon reading that opening salutation. But the letter’s praise smooths away any lingering pique, and he is intrigued by the implication of promotion, perhaps even reorganisation. If the Board is considering restructuring, might he be able to choose his staff, perhaps even his surroundings ( _Tokiko, Mamiya, near him always_ )?  
        Quickly he reviews his actions since the project began; he finds only intelligence and appropriate respect. He has performed every task assigned to him, vetoing outlandish ideas and disciplining personnel as necessary, including the dismissal of one youth who suggested explosives as a solution to the sealed Rose Gate; those who argued that the scholar was "only joking" were silenced by a stern reminder of the project’s stakes. If the researchers seldom speak to him outside of working hours, they have at least learned to model obedience and efficiency within his labs. He’s even overheard a new nickname for their society – the Black Rose – coined after his drying flowers started to infuse Kurios Hall with scent; he finds tremendous satisfaction in hearing himself and Mamiya placed thus at the project’s core. Fierce ambition surges through him as he wonders what “test” is yet to come, and their images seem to smile more brightly as he imagines himself facing adversity with a hero’s cleverness and courage.  
        To prove himself a worthy prince – for _her_ , for _him_ – there is little that Professor Nemuro would refuse.

        ~*~  
        _The road to the Duelling Arena is now open!_  
        _At last,_ that _is about to begin!_  
        _And now, Professor Nemuro's duty is finished. From now on, carrying on without him is probably what_ you-know-who _plans on..._  
        _Surely even_ he _will lose to someone?_  
        _Then we can just leave him by the wayside._  
        _Let's open the champagne!_

        In the depths of Kurios Hall, the sound of popping corks pays a bittersweet tribute to Nemuro's ingenuity.

        ~*~  
        Nemuro waits for replacements to be made, for changes to occur, for _something_ to be altered now that the Arena stands open. But aside from his work hours being greatly lengthened – and he accepts the lagging days laden with tasks as a compliment, though not the recognition he would have preferred – nothing has changed at all. He still signs weekly orders to assemble materials and shuffle personnel, still hears the clacking trundle of carts and the chime of the elevator descending late into the night, is still forbidden to access the lowest level of Kurios Hall or to ask _what_ or _why_ about any of it. And so he stifles curiosity and continues working, returning the secrecy in equal measure by refusing to reveal how the Rose Gate opened.  
        His division of the Black Rose has moved inward, deeper into the project’s mysteries: having penetrated the gate, they now work upon the castle at the Arena’s heart. The extraordinary structure hangs inverted from the Arena's heights, as though holding over their heads the promise of eternity; his students whisper that a revolution awaits the man who can reach it. Nemuro, however, continues to record daily variances in time, which have increased since the Rose Gate opened, and he sees little more than a distant obstacle whenever he climbs the Arena's winding steps to gaze above. He is told that years passed before he unlocked the Gate; for Mamiya's sake, for his own, he can't patiently wait to find a way inside this Castle. Instead, he develops a different and wholly secret plan: alone, he works to uncover a root system to time, convinced that he can control and further slow – perhaps even reverse – its vectors, if only he can determine what they are.  
        It is this esoteric diagram which absorbs him, when the door to his office opens.  
        “You just can't solve that equation, can you?” asks Akio Himemiya.  
        Nemuro doesn’t bother hiding the blackboard, doubting that this irksome consultant can understand a thing written on it. “Outsiders aren't permitted in here.”  
        Akio laughs. “There are no 'outsiders' here. Aside from you, of course.” As Nemuro registers the sting, a letter is passed across his desk. “ _That_ is the first step towards the power to revolutionize the world. It will set everything in motion.”  
        That the _Ends of the World_ should choose this man as messenger and representative! But the professor rarely receives a rose-sealed letter in this direct manner, and so he holds his tongue, eyeing Akio and hiding eagerness as he cracks open the card:

        _The Castle waits to yield its secrets, and you are closer to an answer than any of your peers, but your task will proceed no further until a sacrifice is made._  
        _Perhaps you will summon shock, believing that a decent man must recoil, but deep within your soul you should know My truth: a sacrifice is always demanded. Do we not build upon the bones of our ancestors, and burn the fossils of ancient life, and chart the lights of stars extinguished long ago?_  
        _So must Kurios Hall enter the vaults of memory, and with it, the students who have done little to further My cause, but who as sleeping duellists shall fuel the flame of eternity..._

        The rest explains this plan to “fuel eternity,” beginning with combustion and moving through ever-refined reactions into time itself. For a moment Nemuro’s mind seizes upon the conundrum; theoretically, it _could_ work, putting aside the calculated cost, and even that is not so very high when one considers that a catalyst remains unchanged—  
        — _no_ : it tests him somehow, this lettered lunacy; it _must_ , for he can think of no other rationale behind such instructions! With neither the time nor desire to undergo a moral examination, he drops the page as though it burns his flesh. “Ridiculous!” he loudly exclaims. “I can't possibly do this!”  
        Akio's answer is to lift a small, bright object before his eyes. Right away he recognises the sigil that etches rose petals into blood-red wax. “That's the ring everyone here wears, isn't it?”  
        “It's the Rose Signet. The proof of a contract with Me.”  
        Nemuro can hear the emphasis that makes of those words a message from the Ends of the World. It bewilders him; he must verify this new and startling information. “Contract?”  
        “Yes. I've made contracts with all one hundred boys who work here.”  
        The ring glints in glaring mockery of his memory: _no special reason, Professor; it’s just the latest fashion_. Nemuro tenses, but files away the knowledge of falsehood for later examination. ”That's insane. What contracts? And the boys bound by it, why would you subject them to _this?_ ” He slams his hand upon the letter and then remembers his treasured photograph, reminder of a prince's honour and worthiness, and the truth he now murmurs to reassure both _them_ and himself that he would never, _never_ consider such a thing... “Even if I _did_ grasp eternity by doing this, it wouldn’t make her happy…”  
        “'Her,' you say?”  
        Nemuro is disturbed by the invasion, the _evasion_ of that response. But Akio turns to leave without further discussion, and the silver ring falls from his hand; he drops it rudely into _Tokiko's cup_ , accompanied by a flat instruction: “I give this Rose Signet to you. If you desire eternity, put it on your finger.” He then utters some very strange words. “Your only option is to revolutionize the world. The path you must take has been prepared for you.”  
        The repugnant man at last leaves him – leaves him confused and concerned, his mind swimming with calculations. He tries to return to his former task. But he cannot shake the absurdity of this meeting, its illogic distracting and disturbing him; finally, he flings open his office door and hurries into the corridor, listening for the sound of footsteps. From a distance he thinks he hears what he seeks, though the empty halls echo so much that it's hard to be sure. As he hurries ahead, a youth rounds the corner, pushing a cart that bears a white-draped box. But so driven is Nemuro by his intentions that he refuses to consider a detour, to follow this continuous mystery. Nor does he allow himself entanglement in _why_ these transports always proceed directly to the elevator, or _what_ burdens the boys might bear before them; he addresses instead a much simpler problem, of a doorway ahead that stands open, when the Hall's rules stipulate all rooms to remain sealed unless entering or leaving.  
        He approaches the door, is about to push it open when he glimpses within  
        embracing  
                Akio...  
                        ... _Tokiko_.  
        He doesn't remember returning to his office, except that the four walls of it surround him now. The Rose Signet at the bottom of _her cup_ still glimmers.  
        For several moments he stands, silent, still. Then a violent snap of his arm sends the cup and its contents to the floor.  
        The ring rolls, clatters and finally comes to rest.  
        The cup, of course, shatters.

        ~*~  
        Two figures occupy a plush seat, but in the near-darkness they seem figures of shadow and reflection, hardly human at all. All around them an impossible starscape shines: still, unblinking, unmoving.  
        “And the duels?“ Moonlight glints from a pair of spectacles and makes the stare behind them unreadable.  
        “The Arena stands open. It’s a matter of time.” His eyes take on a distant haze, and for a moment he seems still more remote. “They play with eternity. As though it's some schoolboy assignment. The castle shows itself, and they dream of career, family – trifles! It isn’t enough.”  
        “Envy, then.”  
        “A common enemy bonded them, spurred their work. Nothing more has come of it.” He leans back a languid head, straining his eyes to take in new constellations. “It's past time to call in their contracts.”  
        “What do you want me to do?”  
        He thinks for several long moments, then points high above them both. “There. Endymion. Of all of the Moon's craters, we know that one by its darkness. Endymion was a shepherd who loved the Moon. So ardently that he abandoned his flocks every night. Watching her, drawing her – his 'love letters'.” He turns his face away from the Moon with a slight laugh. “So were the Moon's phases first charted.”  
        They have known each other too intimately, for too long, for further explanation to be asked or given. “ _Hai, onii-sama._ ”  
        “I will miss you,” he sighs. “You must visit, often.” In one smooth motion, he leans forward and cups a hand around his companion's slender neck; his other hand flicks impatiently towards her eyeglasses.  
        The spectacles are dutifully doffed, folded, and placed upon the table, and it is some time before the young woman silently leaves the chamber where Moon and stars shine without motion.


	3. Intermission

        _The rose stage appears, with a backdrop of shadows in the pattern of a greenhouse's walls._  
        _Against this outline, the three Shadow Players appear. B-ko stands at stage right. A-ko is seated and holds a book, while C-ko, who wears eyeglasses, sits at her feet; both are at stage left._

        A-ko: [ _opens the book and begins to read aloud_ ] Once upon a time—  
        C-ko: A time! When? What time?  
        A-ko: A long time ago!  
        C-ko: Well, how long?  
        A-ko: [ _keeps reading, a little more loudly_ ] A king and queen had no children, until one day—  
        [ _B-ko holds aloft a single rose, gesturing to it with an open hand._ ]  
        A-ko and B-ko [ _unison_ ]: Hark! A wondrous child!  
        B-ko: [ _gruffly mimicking a man's voice_ ] At last! Let all of the bells in the kingdom ring!  
        [ _The bells of the Arena toll._ ]  
        C-ko: Which kingdom? Where was it?  
        A-ko: [ _ignores C-ko and continues_ ] But the beauty was cursed—  
        All: [ _unison_ ] Ah!!  
        [ _B-ko hobbles in, as an old witch. She points dramatically and pronounces:_ ]  
        B-ko: In the child's fifteenth year!  
        A-ko: A spinning wheel—  
        B-ko: —a sharp spindle—  
        A-ko: —a pricked finger—  
        B-ko: —and doom!  
        C-ko: But a spindle can't do all of that!  
        A-ko: [ _keeps reading, even more loudly_ ] It was not forever, but only for one hundred years!  
        C-ko: Nobody sleeps for one hundred years. That’s impossible!  
        A-ko: Word spread throughout the land—  
        B-ko: [ _appears on the silhouette of a horse_ ] I shall save the Sleeping Beauty!  
        [ _She approaches a tangle of thorns—_ ] Ah!! [— _and topples from the horse; both thicket and beast then vanish._ ]  
        A-ko: All who failed fell, and perished without ever laying eyes on—  
        C-ko: No, no, NO! [ _jumps up and puts her hands over her ears_ ] It doesn't make any sense at all!  
        A-ko: Alright! [ _shuts the book, hands it to C-ko, and gestures expectantly_ ] Then YOU tell the story!  
        C-ko: But I…  
        [ _The bells again begin to ring._ ]  
        C-ko: I...  
        [ _The bells crescendo into a cacophony. C-ko again holds her ears, having tucked the book under one arm without opening it. The bells halt as she cries out:_ ]  
        C-ko: [ _anguished_ ] I don't know what happens next!!  
        A-ko: You know what can't be! But do you know what can? Oh, unassailable genius!  
        A-ko and B-ko: [ _in unison_ ] Do you know? Do you know? Do you know the ends of the tale?  
        C-ko: [ _correcting quickly_ ] It’s “how the tale ends”!  
        [ _A-ko and B-ko remain silent._ ]  
        C-ko: Isn’t it?  
        [ _Blackout._ ]


	4. Black Rose

        "Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,  
        Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those  
        Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,  
        Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir  
        And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep  
        Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep  
        Men have named beauty."  
        —W.B. Yeats, from “The Secret Rose”

        _Tap, tap, tap_ his boots down the steps. _Tokiko. Akio._ Tapping into his thoughts, _tap-tap-tap_ , stop, stop—no, _run!_ He has never had imagination, _living computer_ ; he doesn’t understand how he imagines them now. The wheeze of his breath, the seizing of his chest. Had they seen him? _Him?! Oh my darling, don’t be absurd. A skinny, dull boy, not a_ man _like you…_  
        He flees, but they follow him: _the power of eternity,_ she breathes into his thoughts, _and if I really believed that that_ robot _could find it, why, I’d be enduring his company instead of enjoying yours…_ They laugh as he runs. Sweat breaks on his skin, hot and then cold; he can explain the physiological processes exactly but can’t explain _this_ , the rush of panic that hurried him from Kurios Hall and into darkness.  
        Once he'd slept in her room, an unintended house-guest after the trains stopped running for the night. How long he’d lain awake, wanting his body to remember _Tokiko’s bed_ …  
        … _had Akio ever_ …  
        He swelters with sudden cold and revulsion, _don’t think, don’t think such things, thoughts excruciating, common!_ He is above this, above _that man_ and _Tokiko who had_ seemed _so pure, so noble—a princess pleading care over their cups—_  
        _—so foolish, stupid! To do such a thing!_  
        _Genius. Computer. A brilliant machine, nothing else. Chemicals and compounds, impulses. A machine, to be used, unfeeling._  
        _To be used_ , she had told him exactly that: _it’s for his sake that I’m involved with all of this._  
        _For his sake. For **his** sake!_  
        _Tap tap tap, To-ki-ko, A-ki-o._ He doesn’t know what to name these sensations; a computer doesn’t feel, _doesn’t feel, cannot!_ He guesses _weakness_ and _distraction_ but the knowledge doesn’t stop it from happening, terror to be driven so mindlessly and he wants it to stop, _stop_ , and there is no-one to hear or answer him, how stupid, _stupid_ to flee like this—  
        — _there are no outsiders here. Aside from you._ Akio’s silken voice – he’s always hated, _hated it_ he knows now – it taunts him: _run along, go on, run, you know so much but you wouldn’t know what a man can do with a woman…it’s me she wants, **me**_. Tokiko! _Maybe I could grasp eternity for him,_ and his thoughts fill in the rest, _and for that power, there’s_ nothing _I wouldn’t do._  
        _Even show you kindness, even_ that. _Because you might have your uses, though you could never save us. Child, machine, pretender!_  
        _Failed prince, felled by a tangle of thorns,_ he recalls suddenly. _Who fills the tale until the real prince wakes the sleeper._  
        _Then **let** him sleep! She’s faithless, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t even want it…_  
        But the decaying light of a thousand stars falls upon his head, condemning him without a word. He shudders to a halt; he is alone, somewhere on a campus emptied by curfew; wretched and worn, he crouches down to recover but stumbles to his knees, braces his torso against shaking arms. His mind struggles to anchor itself somewhere, somewhere else than thoughts of _her_ and _them_ , and _what have you thought, what have you done?!_ and _let him sleep_ , as though he could ever deserve such disregard, Mamiya, _Mamiya..._

        _“The Academy telephoned. Already wanting you back. How selfish they are.”_  
        _Nemuro rouses himself from the damask depths of_ Tokiko’s bed _, sits up and sets his feet on the floor. Blooms meet his gaze: Mamiya at his bedside, bearing an armful of roses. Mamiya, who needs rest. “I deeply apologise for troubling you.”_  
        _“’I deeply apologise’,” the youth mimics. “Kyoujuuuu.”_  
        _He knows by now these impulsive jests, has even learned to reply. “You ought to better respect your elders.”_  
        _Mamiya plunks down beside him, grins and grabs his hand (but he’s seen boys behave so before, not like Akio-Tokiko-nothing-like). The roses set between them seem a taunt: a scent soon to fade, a whisper of decay. It cannot hurt him; a computer must process the data provided, and yet…yet. “May I ask a question?“_  
        _“O-ho, the inquiring scientific mind!”_  
        _He almost smiles. “Mamiya-kun…do you want eternity?”_  
        _At times Mamiya seems an ocean: deep, ponderous, unalterable. Nemuro waits, straining to hear until the youth finally answers. “Eternity means lasting forever, right? For years, decades, centuries, millennia, eons, on and on and on…But all we really have is a moment. People should know that, shouldn’t they?” Mamiya touches a rose, presses a petal and releases it. “Fossils and relics survive for epochs. Nothing growing. Nothing tender.” Light fingertips stroke the hollow of Nemuro’s hand (oh…not like_ them! _). “You’ll come again?”_  
        _He teases Mamiya just as he remembers Tokiko doing. “Selfish boy…”_

        But not selfish, not selfish at all. Only foolish, and undisciplined in his genius, letting soft sentiment bar him from their work. _Mamiya, you will have eternity to forgive me. Because I won’t let you…I won’t let her…_  
        _Let him...I didn’t mean it!_  
        He grips the ground for purchase, knees pressing into soft grass; time and turmoil tumble his thoughts end over end, and how it rattles him, this _need_ , unendurable and inescapable, a hunger without place or precedent in the mind of a living computer. It belongs to another kingdom, another world, a place that still offers him sanctuary from scholarship – and Nemuro must see it now, surely, the poison that taints his mind and skews his objectivity: the sleeper in the woods, the bed of sorrow that becomes a bed of joy.  
        Yet even as his mind shrieks _composure_ and _control_ , overcome by sensations he can’t recognise or name...some small and secret part of him still seeks refuge in those outworn dreams, escaping into thoughts of roses that bloom forever beyond thorns.  
        _Selfish Tokiko, you unsettle me now, **now** of all times. But you’ll return to me when the castle opens...when I lead you both into eternity..._  
        And he will unseal that power; he must, for his fragile kingdom now depends irrevocably upon _them_.  
        _You are mine_ , he silently swears. _**My** princess, **my** prince. And **I** will save you both!_

        ~*~  
        _We are the chick,_ he writes by rote. _The world is our egg. Shatter its shell, and be reborn._  
        He circles the words several times: the Society’s motto, neither invented nor chosen by him, and in his opinion an inadequate and illogical metaphor; an egg is made to be pierced, but the world is no hollow creation awaiting their revolution. He has been unable to solve the final equations that still mark the chalkboard behind him, a taunt of ultimate futility ( _time, he needs time, but not **that** way – the way being prepared even now_ ). His exultant students whisper of nothing else but certain _duels_ they soon will fight in the Arena; he can only eavesdrop upon their conversations and try to make sense of it all ( _when, when?!_ ). A duellist’s ring rests upon his office floor, impassive symbol of an impossible offer, and the pile of paper beside him only whets his urgency, sharpens the temptation of that silver gleam. Yet he remains a scholar, not an athlete; he can’t possibly defeat a hundred youths in any sort of duel, nor can he do _that_ ( _and he hasn’t, only his duty, did nothing that any other scientist—_ ), he must find another way, quickly, quickly; if _genius_ can stave off disaster and evade dismissal, he _must:_

        _To Akio Himemiya  
        Ohtori Academy_

        _Honoured Sir,_

        How long he'd regarded Mamiya's image before writing that salutation, clenching his pen to the point of pain.

        _The problem of the Castle persists, and this project suffers from the secrecy enforced upon it. Without access to the Society's archives or the freedom to discuss results with other divisions, I fail to see how I can “coordinate” this research or eliminate certain problems from our work._

        _Attached is a completed form 11-B4, requesting access to the basement levels of Kurios Hall and permission to meet with all researchers at the earliest possible time. I humbly request your swift and favourable reply._

        _Professor Nemuro, Project Coordinator_  
        _La Société Sub Rosa_

        So absurd that title in the absence of any real “coordination” – cryptic orders, his ignorant signatures, insupportable! Lies, impossible compartmentalization, _blind child!_ Those equations ( _his work!_ ), the subterranean depths of Kurios ( _arranged by his instructions; he would see it done, must **know**_ ), the “roots that nourish the rose of eternity”: the letter he refuses to think about ( _stop!_ ) except that it infests his waking thoughts, its final solution unbearable and monstrous, that must never see light ( _that could actually work, he made sure of that, one-and-one-hundred to only one, only one—never, no!_ ).  
        He'd all but thrown the letter at his secretary, ordering her to Akio’s office without noticing the smile quickly hidden as she hurried away. The response he received was brief, and rife with the rudeness he expects from _that man:_

        _To Professor Nemuro, Project Coordinator._

        _You write to me admitting a failure of vision. Taken together with the findings of Inspector Chida and several complaints lodged recently by your colleagues, this confession raises grave concerns about your fitness to lead._

        _Your request is denied. Find attached 11-B4 with confirmation._

        _Akio Himemiya  
        Ohtori Academy_

        His petition, obscured by an inked Rose Seal, the stamp signifying _sub rosa_ : secret, forbidden. ( _Akio, Tokiko, how_ could _she?_ ) But Nemuro is a professor; one day soon, he will _teach_ them all the proper respect for _genius!_ And then?  
        _Oh, Nemuro-sama, I can never sufficiently thank you. What would I do without you? You've redeemed me – freed me from that stupid man, who can’t hold a candle to your brilliance! And now, forever…_  
        _Kyouju, I…I really wanted eternity, all along. Come with me into the greenhouse. We’ll always be together now. My prince…_  
        Night and day that dream burns in him.

        _To the Honourable Board of Directors, Ohtori Academy:_

        _Allow me to thank you, once again, for your patronage in the matter of this project. I have no wish to waste your time, but it is because I value this position that I write to ask for your assistance._

        He'd heard the elevator chime then, just beyond his door, the clanking of old pulleys at work. Time keeps passing, hurrying past without him, _why, why— (Mamiya, please, don't...!_ )

        _Tasked with coordinating the research of one hundred students, I am forbidden to consult with all but twenty of them and am denied all experimental results save those of my own group. I’m certain that you have excellent reasons for assigning a strict division of labour, but this inability to acquire potentially crucial information is proving a tremendous hindrance._

        _I have submitted numerous appeals—_

        —his hand clenched a rose-stamped stack of pages, before returning to its writing—

        _—without success. I therefore humbly request an audience with you, to present my findings and discuss in person the project's requirements._

        He didn't expect to receive a reply so quickly, nor did he expect it to take the form of his own letter, stamped without any explanation: _sub rosa_ , denied.  
        How long since he's left this room; in this place, who could tell? Nemuro suspects himself for a malfunctioning machine; he cannot calculate so clearly as he once did, can no longer shake away distractions and enclose himself within uncompromising logic.  
        He will recover his genius when the Castle opens, he promises himself. He will expiate his errors and be _something_ once more and not this desperate emptiness.  
        _It’s nothing, Professor..._  
        But he cannot, _must not_ be nothing!

        _To the Honourable 'Sekai no Hate':_

        _Your letters have offered me invaluable aid, for which my gratitude cannot be quantified or expressed. I have completed your assignment to unlock the Arena and continue to work upon the tasks you have entrusted to me._

        _I write to ask you for help, for my petitions to authorities both within and outside of Ohtori Academy have all been denied, yet I believe that, with further information, I can finish my calculations and access eternal time without the sacrifice that you propose._

        A computer requires logical orders and time to carry out its tasks. Alone it cannot function indefinitely.

        _I beseech you, permit me to examine the Black Rose's archives and consult with the other researchers who share our common goal, for to do otherwise is to imperil the success of this project and to charge me with commands that no man could reasonably carry out._

        He doesn't bother with formal salutation, not with this entity who already knows him with discomfiting intimacy, instead signing a smudged scrawl that sheds the armour of titulary and rank.  
        And then he is alone, a relic amidst papers and petitions, waiting, drifting into a rest without ease.

        ~*~  
        _The horse startles and quivers beneath him, but he urges the beast forward and throws them both into the thorny tangle ahead. He ignores the stings. His sword flashes. The castle shines._  
        _When the last vine is severed through, he dismounts and strides forward. Petals unfurl before him, and the greenhouse awaits, awash in sunlight, a figure at its heart. He seizes the youth's hand and makes again for the entrance._  
        _But the gate has shut and sealed itself. Without lock or handle, it looms, impenetrable._  
        _“Sorrows guard this place. The tears of all the world,” Mamiya intones. “So that only those who have beautiful memories may come. How could we leave perfect happiness?”_  
        _“Mamiya!”_  
        _He flinches at_ her _voice and pushes Mamiya behind him, extends a protective arm to shield the boy. And Mamiya's arms encircle him, anchoring upon his waist and shoulder. “I believe in you,” the youth whispers fervently._  
        _The voice calls again, closer now. But the sword is bright in his hand. He radiates brilliance, and the castle must not fall to treachery. His entire being is focused on them, Nemuro, Mamiya…Tokiko..._  
        _“Mamiya! **Now**!” she cries._  
        _A thorn pierces his back; he shudders, shrinks away, but the pain blossoms into breath-stopping agony._  
        _Mamiya grips him still – and holds fast the sword that runs him through._  
        _Nemuro looks down, disbelieving even as he sags gasping to the floor. The sight of the blade cuts him far deeper than any wound._  
        _“This is what you've always known, Kyouju.” The whisper is insidious. “Besides, you're a_ boy _. Did you really think the tale could end like_ that?”

        The firm pounding of fists on wood jars him awake.  
        “Professor? Professor Nemuro!”  
        His eyes register _night_ before he again closes them. He returns his aching head to the desk, and listens while his students discuss him with far more fervour than they’ve ever employed in discussions with him.  
        _Is he sick?_  
        _He vanished right after the inspection; did you notice?_  
        _The Arena…still no sign…_  
        _He must be ill. No-one says._  
        _What do you suppose_ that man _is waiting for?_  
        _They’ll start soon, they have to!_  
        _Maybe the inspector denounced his work?_  
        _Do_ you _want to challenge his position?_ You-know-who _appointed him._  
        _All the better for us if he's replaced, isn’t it?_  
        _You’re right!_  
        _Come on, then! We've done our duty._  
        Their laughter retreats down the corridors. With a surprising surge of _feeling_ , he crumples one of his rejected petitions and hurls it at the door, and it is then that his other hand feels the letter left beside him: a card bearing a blooming emblem.  
        The students’ insults fade away. He fumbles with the wax for too long and finally tears through the seal, nearly ripping the letter in half as he does so.

        _Nemuro:_

        _Information flows to the End of the World; it does not return from there. No-one has yet had the audacity to answer one of My letters._

        _You were recruited for a certain rare genius and given charge of the project for the perceived superiority of your abilities. Do you now confirm an error in My selection? Your requests are denied because further experimental data will change nothing, and because your “fellow researchers” are not your collaborators but your competitors. When the duels for eternity begin – and they will, very soon – they will not hesitate to discard you._

        _My demand was not a “proposal,” nor do your pet projects concern Me. I gave you clear instructions, and My representative brought you the Rose Signet, yet you place yourself above My rule and insult Me with your cowardice. There are many bright young men under your “leadership” who would act to protect what is precious to them._

        _And you? You stand on the precipice of eternity, and you submit paperwork asking permission to proceed. I answer because your pedantry has amused Me, but My tolerance reaches only so far; I have no use for intellect without imagination._

        _Do not dare to question Me again._

        _Sekai no Hate_

        Nemuro is scattered, made diffuse by such words; he rises and paces the floor, like some caged creature seeking escape; he scrutinizes dust and discards for a silver gleam. In time he locates the thing, even gazes upon it with a scientist’s detached curiosity.  
        But he doesn’t know the precise terms of its _contract_ , cannot agree to terms unseen.  
        He hears no more wheels at night. Only celebrations. Anticipation.  
        ( _“When we cut the fading blooms, the rose forgets. Unburdened, it flourishes. I..I find comfort in that, Kyouju…”_ )  
        It is cold comfort now to snatch up the ring and turn it over in his hands, to tilt its Rose Crest back and forth and to _remember_ , and he cannot bear this thing, a tremendous and terrible victory that he can neither claim nor discard.  
        And so he remains alone: a damaged machine, lacking sufficient input to proceed.

        ~*~  
        The chamber with its resplendent stars rests high above Ohtori Academy, and all of its constellations are the eyes of Akio Himemiya, who frequently observes from this peerless vantage point the living bodies moved by his decrees. At present, the Academy’s most solitary professor works unknowingly under his scrutiny, and after several minutes’ watch, Akio announces his assessment of the scene below.  
        “Magnificent. The writhing of a butterfly beneath the pin. He’s so close…” He shakes his head regretfully. “The woman wasn’t half so interesting.”  
        Sometimes he speaks merely to startle, enjoying the uneasy silence that follows; certainly he expects no response from his companion, who sits behind a great wheel, deep in concentration. Her slender hands craft a thread of coruscating hues, reflecting colours beyond count or name.  
        “No spindle?” he teases.  
        The wheel slows, clacking unevenly and finally ticking to a halt; she says nothing, but holds out the thread to his inspection.  
        “It’s beautiful. As only ephemeral things are.”  
        She lifts a pair of shears, still bedewed by the sap of rose stems, and parts the blades in expectation. But her voice holds a warning. “You’re certain?”  
        “Concern, Anthy – for him?”  
        She lowers the cutters. “For you. If it's too soon...”  
        There is a long pause, through which Akio seems to consider her words. Then he brightens. “You want to delay me?”  
        A smirk is her only answer.  
        His eyes slide back to the third level of Kurios Hall, then return to her with deliberate languor. There is a request in his stare, a hunger she reads all too well.  
        After several moments, she leaves her work and steps into the light of a rounded moon. A beauty mark between the brows remains unchanged, even enhances the illusion's allure. But pale hair now frames the slim shoulders of a scholar, and strange eyes, some shade between violet and brown, peer warily through purple-tinted lenses.  
        “ _Endymion_ ,” breathes Akio, and his husky voice makes of the name both paean and summons.  
        The projector, that artificial world, folds itself around them. And while the pair explores the wicked amusement to be had in _delay_ , the shears sit idle, waiting, shining upon a pile of thread that glistens like a gossamer star.

        ~*~  
        Nemuro almost believes himself dreaming when the door to his office opens; not since that first day, when he saw her for the first time, has she come to him here. “Tokiko-san?” He tries to discern his triumph in her tears. _Oh, Nemuro-san, that awful man…_  
        But the words she sobs are not those.  
        And he can only remain, perfectly still, until she backs away from him, looses his shoulders and lowers her face.  
        “It doesn't matter,” he hears himself say. “The project proceeds on schedule.”  
        “Doesn't...? Nemuro-san...how can you be so—”  
        “I have work to do.” The rest, he leaves unspoken. She ought to know. He can’t waste any further time.  
        “Then you...you really are...what they say. Aren’t you?! A computer—“  
        ( _“A 'living computer',” she admitted at last, explaining her anger. “How can they speak with such disrespect?”_  
        _It was Mamiya who offered a suggestion. “Parallax.”_  
        _He hid a smile with a bow of his head, then explained for Tokiko. “A difference in perception, caused by relative position.”_  
        _”Also, they're fools.”_  
        _”Mamiya!”)_  
        —how she had hated that word, then. But a prince remains strong, though cut to the heart; he treats even enemies with courtesy. “Please go,” he says, without even the feigned inflection of feeling. “Outsiders aren't allowed here.”  
        “Nemuro-san—“  
        He gestures firmly to the door. “ _Leave_.”  
        She weeps still, her body bowed with defeat, as she follows the path his pointing hand ordains.  
        The door shuts, and he finds surprise when tears well and drop from his own eyes, as apples fall from laden branches. Such response is not reasonable, nor does it serve the work ahead of him.  
        He ignores the useless sensation, finds the pages he needs and gathers them together.  
        As he steps into the hallway, he hears his students, and oh, how they offend him now! Their revels. Their pleasure. Those false princes, who band together to steal what is _his_ , who scheme to take eternity from him. _Celebrating!_  
        He slams and locks his office door. Behind him, he leaves an unanswered equation, and the fragments of a broken teacup, and a memory of momentary sin that he would sooner leave sealed forever—

        _—a violent snap of his arm sends the cup and its contents to the floor._  
        _The ring rolls, clatters and finally comes to rest._  
        _The cup, of course, shatters…_  
        _…but the letter beckons his wretched mind, offering up labyrinthine figures to absorb him. He snatches up the page and falls, enrapt, into its equations, so clear, so pure! His work permeates this document, and for one shining moment, he almost understands: the supplies, the tests—_  
        _—then he finds the fatal flaw: incomplete combustion, setting nothing into motion._  
        _He can’t possibly do this deed, but it doesn’t matter._  
        _Without repair this plan will fail._

        The catalyst. An apocalyptic spark.

        _Here is his genius: misunderstood, misused._  
        _The project crumbling under his leadership._  
        _Akio laughing, standing in his place. With her. With him._

        _A sacrifice is needed._ He knows, has _always_ known the hollow form that looms at the end of knowledge. But when he breaks open the infinite, and stands crowned with them before the castle, everything will be redeemed.  
        _Everything..._

        _He can’t let such error stand unchallenged. Any scientist would think the same._  
        _It takes only a moment for him to fix the mistake and communicate the corrections._  
        _And a moment is a mere drop into eternity._  
        _Then he flees into darkness, chased from Kurios Hall by_ them…  
        _...by_ himself…

        The ring chills him – a droplet of cool water, a sting soon forgotten – as he pushes it onto his finger.  
        Then he walks towards the light at the end of the hollow hallway, god-like in the grace that he brings: the Word that will send one hundred duellists to their rest. Guided by pure and unadulterated logic, he begins the final experiment that Kurios Hall will ever host.  
        They will be shocked to see him, then devastated by what he brings: terminal knowledge, their end to the tale. But he is still project leader, appointed by the Ends of the World, and in his arms he holds the only papers he’s ever truly needed, the edict that justifies everything yet to come: _Your assignment now includes all commands I choose to give you, and you may produce this letter as authorization if your resultant actions are challenged._  
        Should his task succeed, he will have time, all the time needed to make everything right. And if it fails, he will still remain: a duellist alone, the _one_ chosen to stand in the Arena, favoured for his fervour and possessing sufficient fury to fell the world.  
        Either way, he will have answers. He will see for himself the final destination, know at last how a true prince — who keeps faith with the realm which has never, _never_ deserted him — is rewarded, discover what lies beyond the last page of every book and the conclusion of every test.  
        Nemuro now wears the ring that a prince must give to his beloved. He has crossed over the moat where sorrows drown the seeker, and seen with his own eyes the realm where eternity dwells.  
        He understands, at last, why the prince risks everything for his quest.  
        And he will journey to the End of the World, to bear his sleeper back from there.

        ~*~  
        High above the Academy, Akio reclines, his relaxed manner evidencing a deep satiety. Beside him rests the image of Sub Rosa's coordinator, too young for the line of concentration that cuts his forehead, his purple tunic still unfastened and open to the waist. Akio rolls over and picks up a length of the cut thread laid between them, and he fondles the soft weave as he observes the primary experiment underway at Ohtori Academy.  
        Resting his chin on his knuckles, he watches fondly as Tokiko runs from Kurios Hall, still wiping at tears with tremulous fingers. Her appeal to the professor was perfectly anticipated, her notes on his psyche invaluable; Akio still marvels that the young “genius” never realised he was the subject of her inspection. Yes, she has amply proven the worth of her services, and a transfer to another of the Board's institutions awaits her. He almost regrets the seduction, though – too neat, too swift – and seeing her unfeigned weeping now, he wonders if the woman might have better served his purposes in Nemuro's bed than his own.  
        But the mastermind spends no further time upon his consultant, for his pretty professor, his chosen subject, has evidently wearied of his little tangle of thorns and decided to cut through them all at once. And so Akio turns his eyes to Kurios Hall, and a smile slowly breaks his features as Nemuro – severe, sorrowing Nemuro, who is breaking against his own dreams – accepts the Rose Signet at last.  
        At that moment, Akio hears with relief the signal he has long awaited: the Rose Gate twisting and withdrawing its petals, before slamming shut with a violent crash. The Signets now serve as sole keys to enter the Arena, and with the secrecy of the duels thus assured, Akio considers the days to come and savours his eventual victory: either the duellists will temper each other, fighting amongst themselves until the strongest sword remains—  
        —or Nemuro, that awakening sleeper, will kindle the fire of revolution.  
        “Ah, Anthy,” he murmurs to the resting girl. “I almost envy you.”

        ~*~  
        _And so it begins: the Prince enters the feasting hall, brandishing before him the royal decree, and his words are the incantation that weaves a spell over an entire kingdom. The ancient tale tells what must take place, but his is the strength to command it done._  
        _He finds them loyal subjects, all. They do not rebel against the path before them, for the curse was long ago made clear; they swore their fealty with open hands and eyes. Obeying their orders, they follow him to their final descent, and they prove as valiant as they are steadfast. Not one turns away. Not one looks back._  
        _Each youth leaves behind only a mark of his tread upon this holy earth, a sign of his self-sacrifice in the barbs of the world. These hundred princes do not speak, as they enter the beds they themselves have made. They do not cry out as the wall of thorns engulfs them. Henceforth they shall slumber beneath the Rose Seal, a fragile eternity burning in the heat of their blood. The story will continue for as long as they lie entrapped._  
        _So does a kingdom sleep, for love of the Sleeper, and none may wake until wedding bells sound the Prince’s triumph through all the land. Until this outsider Prince, the wanderer seeking fortune far from home – the greatest and most noble of them all – finds his Bride and breaks the spell with a kiss._  
        _When the Prince has thus lain his rivals to rest, he ascends again into the hall, returns to the place of rejoicing where the scene of their final revel remains. Tapers still blaze merrily, leaping at the sudden wind raised by his entrance, as though they might anticipate his purpose. Here is the Prince's brilliance given form: the flame that blossoms deep in his heart, now the bright torch held in his hand._  
        _And he is radiant as he goes forth, to follow the path that his entire life, all that he knows, has prepared for him alone. As he descends, his purity of purpose blazes from every place he passes—_  
        _—until again he reaches the shrine where a hundred duellists lie sleeping, and in the anteroom, finds the place that is there prepared for_ him _. He cannot be afraid, for a Prince's courage lights the world, and the tears that fall, heedless of this knowledge, are the last he will shed._  
        _He traces the shape of his sleep until he discerns what rests before him: a vessel to bear him over the river of sorrows untouched, unscathed by such pain as blights a hero's resolve._  
        _He enters then, without fear, to seek the End of the World._  
        _So may a Prince be ennobled by suffering. So must a genius build a heaven upon hell._

        ~*~  
        When Nemuro touches the casket – a spare part, somehow, in this end-game of otherwise perfect calculations – Akio sits up so sharply that he nearly knocks Anthy to the floor.  
        “ _Onii-sama?_ ”  
        “You have to go. Now.”  
        “What is it?” she asks wearily.  
        “I didn't authorize _that_.”  
        Unhurried, she follows his gaze down to Kurios Hall. Her spectacles are shining shields as she returns her eyes to him and tilts her head, expressing perplexity and pique in a single glance. “Is _that_ so tragic? One more boy in a coffin—“  
        A hard glare stops her. “ _I did not authorize that._ Go!”  
        She knows better than to risk further delay; she rises, and a mere moment passes before the image of Mamiya Chida appears.  
        Then the impostor vanishes, and Akio doesn't see the swift, secret smile that, for a moment, erases both impassivity and impartiality from that blooming face.

        ~*~  
        _Perhaps – she will later admit – perhaps any other form would have sufficed, for what should have been simple persuasion._  
        _But in this moment, fire blossoms on the floors above, and soon the professor will take his chosen place in this equation, the project's new creation, a reaction to catalyze revolution. There is no time for careful planning – how absurd, to need time in the face of eternity! – and so she pries open the coffin lid, and coaxes._  
        _Because she is the Rose Bride, the voice of his deepest desire calls his name. She summons the sleeper forth, and her call is the siren-song that lured the beauty to the wheel, the rosy apple that shines with irresistible annihilation. She weaves the witch's will into the tale, and she has never before failed to entice, to bend the strongest purpose to the story's shape._  
        _But he has embraced an eternity of darkness and memory, and the force of a formidable mind clings to this sanctuary from thought; he does not emerge. Yet he reaches up to her, and cups her cheek, clasps her wrist._  
        _His eyes are raw wounds as he pulls her hand to his chest, opens her palm over his heart._  
        _As the form of his pain gathers, coalesces clear and sharp, giving itself up to her._  
        _She has not anticipated this, but cannot, must not refuse the opportunity now! Greed lights her green-blue eyes. The hilt rises from him, gilt and golden, gleaming with the glory of his existence – always so precious, a gift more priceless than the giver ever knows..._  
        _She grasps, as he surrenders to her the core of himself. For she wears the face of the only one in the world he has found worthy of it._  
        _(The one she has slain, and his eyes – his eyes...)_  
        What _goes awry, and exactly_ why _, she will never discover – too little time, perhaps, or too much force. Impatience, or carelessness, or something deeper, thought long-extinct, gasping its final breath for the ruined man's sake..._  
        _(The absolute trust in his eyes!)_  
        _She will never know for certain why the blade breaks, nor quite banish the sound of his scream from her sleeps._  
        _What the Rose Bride does know, all too well, is the price of this broken sabre, the toll to be exacted from her mind and body for this failure. And for a moment, the poison of hatred twists the features of her borrowed mask._  
        _For what lies beneath her is a sundered soul, split by suffering – useless! The two halves of the tale – sleeper, saviour – locked together in sorrow._  
        _At last the struggle ends, and the Sleeper returns to his rest, his fading moan the misery of awakening – and the mercy of forgetting._  
        _But the Prince, who endures suffering for the sake of nobility, who denies even the temptation of mortality, fights on, a sleepless shadow whose force cannot be locked away._  
        _She watches as he seizes the fractured sword, as – refusing the release of even a single cry – he takes it into himself. Her eyes are witness, and windows, to his terrible agony, his agonizing nobility. For a moment this Prince blazes before her, crowned with the light that her heart remembers—remembers..._  
        _Yes, she knows the price for this night's work – knows, and accepts, as she holds out her hand to this man, offering him the love laid deep in earth – and claiming, in him, her own fading memories..._

        ~*~  
        ...he emerges thus, and before him there stands dream made flesh: his precious one, his jewel. His arms encircle the youth with an acolyte's fervour; he trembles with the force of his own longing. For eons he embraces, his hands stroking the cherished face. His eyes encompass the mark of beauty between the brows, the green-blue of a gaze once ocean-deep, shaping his memories to the form that his happiness demands.  
        Then he shuts his eyes to doubt, crushing questions in kisses rained on cloud-pale hair. His prince, his beautiful sleeper, everything, _everything_ he almost lost! And Mamiya, _Mamiya_ murmurs sweetly in his ear – _senpai_ , that fond nickname he’s always adored – then tells him the rest of the tale without words, hands and lips drawing out such delight as he has never known. A long, long time – a time he cannot measure and no longer cares to try – he lies in a dazed languor, Mamiya borne on his breast and the two of them rising, rising into the blazing husk of Kurios Hall.  
        All around them rages fire; he doesn’t think to ask why Mamiya takes the candelabrum with them, but presses his lips again to his treasure. “Go, now,” he commands, and to his relief, the youth obeys and flees the inferno. Only when he stands alone does he gaze a moment more, and allow Sub Rosa to resurface in his memories, the dry days that passed before he knew either tears or flames. But he cannot bear to let Mamiya from his sight any longer, and hurrying down the steps, he leaves the hall, gasps for breath until he sees the boy standing a safe distance away.  
        But _she_ , too, is there.  
        She has come. For him. For _them_.  
        And he blinks, uncomprehending of the twinge that results, as she grasps the youth's shoulders: _what I hate most_ , he remembers at last, and again forgets as he goes to Mamiya. She is out of breath from running, and her hard gaze holds no understanding as it takes in catastrophe: the burning tapers, her brother’s unruffled face.  
        “Is it true? You did this?” Tokiko demands. Her eyes ensnare Mamiya in suspicions, and her question changes subtly, until she is closer to truth than she knows. “You were behind this?”  
        Sirens wail in the distance, like screams of failing hope.  
        “Yes,” the youth whispers.  
        _Oh, Mamiya. Ever loyal. You don’t need to protect me._  
        “ _Why?!_ ” she cries. “Why did you do this?”  
        Once, he is darkly aware, he would have avoided the irrationality of conflict. Now, he steps forward and reveals to her the light of reason, which transforms this cryptic Kurios into a beacon of truth.  
        “They had a contract,” he decrees. Too late he realises that his letters burn with the rest, taking from him the precise phrasing of End of the World’s directives. “Ancient creatures died and became the fuels we mine, like oil and coal; without a sacrifice like that, our energy-based civilization would have been impossible. Such sacrifices are always necessary—”  
        “What are you talking about?” she cries, a rude interruption.  
        But her demand is only a denial; he knows that now. Once he, too, had refused to understand.  
        “This is the first step towards the task you have.” _That_ we _have. That we still have, Tokiko!_ “One day, the path to eternity will be opened from this school.” He clasps her wrist then, pulling her hand from Mamiya, away from blame. _Don’t you see what I’ve done? For both of you? I came from the End of the World to claim you!_  
        “Nemuro-san—”  
        “Mamiya did the right thing. I, too, now wish to grasp eternity with my own hands.” Their dream is now within reach, and he anticipates her elation, her renunciation of sins past. _Only speak, and I will forgive!_ And he tightens his grip on her wrist and steps closer to her, awaiting his triumph. Firelight flickers over her features…  
        She yanks away her hand, and her face twists with something ugly; what those wide, fearsome eyes could mean, he can’t discern, cannot comprehend.  
        And having so insulted him, she strikes him, with such force as he cannot forgive.  
        _Ignoble…ignoble._  
        It is not the conduct of a princess. And then he knows, can no longer deny:  
        _She has never understood true genius. She isn’t yet_ worthy _of eternity!_  
        Still, a prince acts with unfailing chivalry, and he concedes that she could be disturbed by…by ( _don’t_ —) the _blaze_ , its carnage bright before them. So he speaks, once more, to the woman vanquished by his valour: a warning, an offer. “True eternity will be built upon the sacrifice of those one hundred young duellists.”  
        _And on that day, Tokiko…_  
        Then he leaves his spectacles where they lay, and as he walks away – his arm guarding his Mamiya from every ill – he doesn’t witness her stumble to her knees beside them.  
        It is thus, in the fading light of Kurios Hall, that he learns to see clearly, glimpsing at last the true shape of eternity, the _axis mundi_ of his fragile world – a form that fills his mind and freezes in this frozen time: the rose and its root, the fire of heaven and the waters of sorrow, the sleeper awake and his endless saviour: Mamiya, Mikage.  
        Mamiya and Mikage, _Mamiya and Mikage..._


	5. Calyx (Black Rose)

        "I, too, await  
        The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.  
        When shall the stars be blown about the sky,  
        Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?  
        Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,  
        Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?"  
        —W.B. Yeats, from “The Secret Rose”

        For weeks, fire fills the conversation of Ohtori's students, fuelling gossip and increasingly wild speculation. No-one really knew what went on in Kurios Hall, after all, since the students who studied there were reclusive and their instructor even more so; in the absence of any credible information, Professor Nemuro becomes a minor legend on campus. Some say that he tried to save his students and failed, while others craft tragic tales of a fatally dedicated teacher, who went willingly with his pupils when he realised they were lost. Despite darker rumours that shadow the disaster – suggestions that the blaze resulted from Nemuro’s negligence, even malice – the Board votes unanimously to rebuild and rename Kurios Hall, and through the unexpected generosity of the Ohtori family, a new project - reconstruction - begins upon the blight of the Black Rose. And it seems that no time passes at all before the solemn arches and forbidding walls of grey stone stand again restored.  
        Still, the graceful hall exudes a strange loneliness, its hollows moving the visitor almost to aching with a sudden, indescribable sympathy, and a thin layer of dust seems to cover everything although the building is kept meticulously clean. The Board’s intentions were noble, surely, and yet the same students who swooned over stories of the princely professor now shun the place that bears his name. For despite the ample libraries, the stacks of yellowing ephemera, and the ponderous silence that make Nemuro Memorial Hall an ideal refuge for research, there’s no denying the heaviness that hangs in the very air there, unsettling anyone unwise enough to linger. And even the most determined reader finds it hard to focus when unseen wheels clatter down empty corridors, or a scent of invisible roses suddenly fills the room.  
        Perhaps only a student kept at a similar distance could feel at home in such a remote, unapproachable place. And long after the fire has burnt out, and the stories and rumours have extinguished themselves in the ashes of time, one such youth indeed takes up residence in Nemuro Memorial Hall: Souji Mikage, who at the tender age of eighteen is the youngest professor ever employed by the Academy. He is known to the student body only in wondering whispers, being so esteemed in his brilliance that no-one dares seek him out, nor interview any member of the exclusive Mikage Seminar which gathers around him. The select few who encounter this astonishing youth are stricken by his charisma and cowed by a single glance of his violet-brown eyes, which seem to blaze forth a divine gift of _genius._  
        The wistful, haunted light in that gaze is harder to explain, and witnessed by no-one save Mikage’s sole companion, for whose sake Mikage almost never leaves their home. For within Nemuro Memorial Hall rests everything the professor could ever need: his books and his papers, and a photograph of the same beautiful youth who is the sunlight of his eternal garden. When Mikage finds himself alone, he studies and gazes and waits, shuttering his inner eyes to memories too distant and dim for truth, flinching from flashes of _terror_ and _sorrow_ and a sickening, inexplicable fear of his Mamiya, his precious one, lying unsmiling and still. Then Mamiya returns to him, and he buries every thought in the boy’s embrace, losing himself in lips that bloom with unspoken dreams of devotion and desire. And Mamiya whispers to him, soft and gentle as a zephyr: _I will never abandon you, senpai. Not like her. Not till the end of the world._  
        High above Ohtori Academy, Akio observes these pathetic affections, gritting his teeth over the blight of a bud forced open too soon; it irritates him to admit that he should have heeded Anthy’s warning, that he could be witnessing the start of a revolution if only he’d waited a little longer, or at least reaped the prince’s sword himself instead of watching helplessly as it split his prize specimen apart. Still, Akio has gained a great deal from that prim professor and his terminal project: not only the knowledge that will hone other students to his advantage, but a reservoir of entombed duellists whose collective energy grants him time, enough to be patient with future subjects. Cheering himself up with these thoughts, Akio looks away from Nemuro Hall, and barks a mocking chuckle as he does so; the irony – of immortalizing in stone the _only_ Sub Rosa researcher who didn’t want eternity for himself – never fails to amuse.  
        Akio then lifts his pen and begins writing a letter, for he must bring in new duellists, having now confirmed that strongly individualistic and deeply wounded adolescents will suit his purposes best. True, _Mikage_ remains, and retains much of the same power and intelligence as his predecessor, but Akio dare not place his own fate in the hands of one untested shadow, particularly one who so thoroughly loathes him. And of course, he never had any intention of choosing the Engaged by _default_ , of naming as champion duellist the _one_ remaining of _one hundred and one_ , for it requires neither tempering nor mettle to simply be the last man standing. Really, Akio has learned enough from the erstwhile professor to discard Mikage entirely, but at Anthy's insistence – careful she is, and subtle, always finding the advantage in backup plans – he allows the illusions to thrive, lets live the roots from which the Black Rose might flourish anew. Perhaps it will yet prove interesting – at least, more so than the saccharine wallowing that seems Mikage’s prime concern at present – and with a sly smile, Akio signs his completed letter in a self-assured scrawl: _Sekai no Hate._  
        If Akio’s lustful gaze still strays, on occasion, to the young professor – that pallid Endymion who held his hopes of power so briefly, so badly – it doesn’t linger long, for there’s little interest to be had in a motionless, mindless machine. And so serenity reigns in the sole surviving chamber of Kurios Hall, where deep in earth, in the borderland between the quick and the dead – the gateway to the Ends of the World – a century of buried duellists sleep, while in the adjoining anteroom, solitary still, their dormant leader guards their secrets _sub rosa_ : beneath the Rose Seal’s rule. Nemuro leaves in his wake neither loneliness nor grief, nor can sorrow penetrate the singular vessel where he seeks to trade infinite potential for undying memory. In that chrysalis that bars all transformation, he sleeps, and his sighs are the breezes of an endless summer, are the laughter of Tokiko and Mamiya, are the shaking heads of roses whose petals never fall. And if, on occasion, he sees glimpses of a disturbing world through different eyes – a gaze blurred and too bright, unguarded by either lenses or reserve – he flinches back and draws again his dreams over himself.  
        Perhaps it would have pleased Nemuro to know that, atop his isolated coffin, a terrarium is set, the tank a testament to wresting triumph from bleak terrain. Although no winds sweep the empty scape of this peculiar shrine, and no sunlight reaches so deep underground, a ray of light like cold expectation falls always into the glass. And in this stately hall – unchanging mausoleum, museum of one man’s mind – streams of sorrow seep into the basement still. For once Nemuro woke and walked and even _wept_ in this place, and the chiming of that falling rain echoes through the duellists’ rest, a chill of unwarmed pain which waters the only plant that grows in a place without time or age. His tears were few, so precious few, but enough remain, perhaps, to nourish the flowers that bloom at the End of the World.  
        In the darkly shimmering glass appear a Sleeper and his Prince, two reflections of the same old tale, who have all of the time in this world to wait. And so, over the steady dropping of remembered tears, Mamiya and Mikage entwine their hands, joining power and purpose over the roots that must one day reach out to eternity.  
        Until at last, deep underground where darkness illumines the absolute destiny, a black rose blooms.


End file.
